


this town rips the bones from your back

by nighimpossible



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Family, Flashbacks, Grief/Mourning, Makeup Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-14
Updated: 2018-06-14
Packaged: 2019-05-23 10:29:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14932529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nighimpossible/pseuds/nighimpossible
Summary: Somehow, inexplicably, time passes. Even when every minute feels like a century, time does pass. Jim and Diane try for a year or so to get pregnant again, but it’s like pulling teeth—Diane’s never in the mood and Jim’s not trying to push things. Hell, he doesn’t know if he even wants another kid anymore. Not after what happened with Sarah.They should warn you before you become a parent, Jim thinks sourly. The human body isn’t built to love something that much. Not everyone’s made for it.





	this town rips the bones from your back

**Author's Note:**

> That feeling when you write ninety percent of a Joyce/Hop fic and then let it sit in your gdocs for nine months. Title from Spingsteen's "Born to Run." All mistakes are my own. Spoilers through the end of season two. First part of this fic spans Hopper's high school years to episode four of season one. Part two of this fic starts right after season two.
> 
> Warnings for: a very hedged discussion of Lonnie's abuse/mistreatment of Joyce as well as discussion of Sarah's death.

 

 

**hawkins, indiana — november, 1959**

 

 

 

 

It’s senior prom and Jim is smoking in the parking lot.

 

No way in hell Jim Hopper pays for a prom ticket without a prom date, and while he probably could have asked Brittany Markle or Diane Horn to go steady, Jim doesn’t really do well with settling. Now that Jim’s eye was caught by a girl, he wasn’t about to ask anybody else out. So he’ll sit and smoke with Terry until Terry’s date, Nadine, calls him back inside the school to dance some more, and then Jim will sit and smoke alone.

 

“Why’d you even come here tonight, Jimmy?” Terry asks him. Terry’s a good, decent kid with a bright future ahead of him: got a scholarship to a good school up north and everything. Jim’s probably a bad influence, but there are days when Jim thinks nothing can sour Terry’s optimistic bent.

 

“Just had a feeling,” Jim says.

 

“What _feeling?_ ” Terry coughs, blowing smoke out of Jim’s passenger seat window. He’s not much of a smoker.

 

“I dunno,” Jim shrugs, flicking his cigarette stub out of the car and pulling another from his pack. “Like I should be here.”

 

Jim’s not the most popular guy at school, but he looks out for people. Makes sure no one gets bullied too much. People come to him for advice or if they’ve got a problem. Jim figures being near the dance, if not an actual attendant, will give him the perfect proximity if shit hits the fan and someone needs him.

 

That’s what he tells himself, at least.

 

“Mhmm,” Terry murmurs pointedly. “You just wanna catch Joyce in a fight with Lonnie Byers. Swoop in, maybe save the day like a superhero.”

 

“Shut up,” Jim says, sinking down into the driver’s seat. Terry’s had him pegged for a while now. “You should go find Nadine.”

 

Terry shrugs and punches him in the shoulder before getting out of the car. He leans down through the open window and smiles at Jim, his teeth white and pearly in the moonlight. “You should tell her! Then she’ll know.”

 

“Yeah, and then what?” Jim asks, blowing smoke up at Terry’s face.

 

“Dunno,” Terry shrugs, waving the smoke away from his nose. “Either she says yes and you get a happily ever after or she says no and you move on. But I’d bet my bottom dollar you wouldn’t be sitting out here alone.”

 

Terry leaves and Jim does some people watching. Laura White and her gaggle of girlfriends dressed to the nines walk by him with their steamrolled dates, flowery corsages on their arms and sickly sweet smiles on their faces. Jim goes through a few more cigarettes on his own, flicking the stubs out the window of his car one after the other. The lot is quiet for a while until a few lonesome stragglers without dates make their way inside the front doors of the high school. They stumble around, clearly drunk off their asses, walking directly into a familiar couple emerging from the high school’s double door entrance.

 

“Watch it!” someone shouts as one of the drunk students sloppily falls over. His friends shoulder him inside the doors and the exiting couple barrels past them.

 

Jim raises an eyebrow.

 

“You friggin’ _look_ at John Kraft again, I don’t know what I’m gonna do.” Lonnie Byers is an asshole, but that’s just Jim’s honest to God opinion.

 

“I wasn’t _looking_ at anyone, Lonnie, I was just _dancing_.” The voice is feminine and exasperated, and as Jim cranes his neck, he sees Joyce Womack emerge from the shadows—a vision in green tule.

 

“Ah, shit,” Jim sighs.

 

Jim doesn’t want to get in the middle of a lover’s quarrel, he really doesn’t—he’s already made a pact with himself that despite how he feels about Joyce, he’s not a homewrecker. Joyce is a big girl, and she can make her own decisions. Anyway, she’s crazy about that Byers asshole, and even if Jim doesn’t know what she sees in him, he’ll let it go.

 

That is, he’ll let it go until Lonnie grabs Joyce’s arm. “Fuck you, I saw the way Krafty was smirking.”

 

“That’s just his _face_ , Lonnie,” Joyce says, grunting in an attempt to pull her arm away. She can’t escape his grasp but Jim is already out of his car, the door slamming closed with a loud noise that spooks Lonnie something fierce.

 

“Everything alright?” Jim asks through his teeth, a cigarette perched between his lips. His casual manner is betrayed by how fast he’s walking towards them.

 

“Easy, _sheriff_ ,” Lonnie jokes. “We’re just talking.”

 

“Hey, Jim,” Joyce says, relief coloring her voice. She glances at Lonnie and gives one last tug of her arm while he’s distracted to set herself free. Joyce takes a few steps back. “Didn’t think you’d show up to the prom.” She smiles at Jim, looking him up and down. “Why aren’t you wearing a suit?”

 

“Real question is why are you wearing that,” Jim grins. “Didn’t think you were much of a dress girl.”

 

“Don’t start. I couldn’t wear my leather jacket to prom.” Joyce looks at him a little conspiratorially. “So I left it in the car.”

 

“ _See_ ,” Lonnie says, pointing between the two of them. “You act all friendly with people. Lead them on.”

 

Joyce rolls her eyes while Jim answers her question from before: “No suit required, seeing as I didn’t buy a ticket.”

 

At this, Lonnie laughs. “Wait, so you’re telling me you came to prom to sit outside in the parking lot— _alone?”_ Lonnie looks at Joyce, clearly hoping to redeem himself in her eyes. “I mean, I’ve heard of pathetic before, but this is just sad.”

 

“No offense, Joyce, but fuck you, Lonnie,” Jim says harshly, waving him off. He turns his back to Lonnie and faces Joyce. “Are you good?” Jim doesn’t really enjoy standing here taking shit for no good reason. If Joyce is fine with this scumbag, he’ll go.

 

Joyce hesitates and Jim makes a call.

 

“Milkshakes?” Jim asks Joyce in a gentler voice, ignoring Lonnie completely.

 

“Yeah, like she’s gonna leave me at this dance to go hang out with some loser,” Lonnie laughs. “Let’s go back inside, Joyce.” When Joyce doesn’t reply, Lonnie’s face falters. “Joyce?”

 

“Yeah,” Joyce nods at Jim. “Milkshakes sound good.”

 

“ _You walk away from me tonight, it’s over!_ ” Lonnie screams at her as Jim leads her to his car.

 

“He just needs to blow off some steam,” she says in explanation as she slides into the passenger seat.

 

Jim doesn’t need excuses from her. “Let’s get out of here.” His car makes streak-marks on the asphalt of the parking lot.

 

The drive to the local diner is short, and Jim blasts the radio as Little Richard’s “Lucille” comes on. Joyce yelps in delight and starts twisting and grooving in her seat. “I _love_ this song!”

 

The bottom drops out of Jim’s stomach as Joyce squeezes his forearm in delight. Teenage love is such a fucking cliche.

 

Joyce gets a strawberry milkshake and Jim gets a coffee. They look like an odd pair, what with Joyce in her forest green prom dress and Jim in his damn corduroys. He feels random passerby in the diner giving them strange glances. It’s a small town, after all. Most people know Joyce Womack is going steady with Lonnie Byers and has been for years.

 

Jim has to ask. “Why do you stay with him?”

 

Joyce has her straw between her teeth. She bites down around the plastic for a moment before releasing it. “I didn’t tonight.”

 

And that shuts Jim right up.

 

“Why didn’t you go to prom?” Joyce asks. “If we’re getting to the real nitty gritty, that is.”

 

Jim raises an eyebrow. Fair is fair, he supposes. “Didn’t have anyone to take.”

 

“Bullshit.” Joyce’s laugh is incredulous. “I could name at least ten girls who would love to have you on their arm, Jim Hopper. That excuse is fooling _nobody_.” She’s leaning forward, dragging her finger around the rim of her milkshake with a knowing smile on her face. A few strands of her dark hair fall around her face, framing her eyes perfectly. It’s stupidly sexy and Jim feels himself falling hook, line, and sinker. “So why don’t you tell me the truth, mister?”

 

Jim exhales with a laugh. “Damn, Joyce. You drive a hard bargain.”

 

Joyce smiles. “I don’t like being lied to, Jim. ‘Specially when I know better.”

 

Jim wonders what exactly she knows. “You wanna go somewhere?”

 

She doesn’t reply, simply finishes the dregs of her shake so that the sound of her slurping against the glass cup can be heard across the diner. “Go where?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

The Hawkins Overlook is an area of the local park that Jim likes to go to when he wants to get out of the house. His dad’s a piece of work and the quiet solitude of Hawkins below calms his nerves. He takes Joyce there, and it feels a bit strange: like she’s invading his personal space, even though it’s near wilderness.

 

“Lonnie, he’s just—” Joyce sighs, leaning back on hood of Jim’s car. Her elbows prop her up so that she can stare up at the night sky. “He’s a real hothead.”

 

Jim snorts. “There are other words I would use to describe him,” he notes, turning his head away from the starry skies above them to Joyce’s profile beside him.

 

Joyce rolls her eyes. “I’m sure there are. You just don’t know him like I do. He’s nice, most of the time.” She is quiet for a moment and then mutters, “He loves me too much, that’s all.”

 

“That’s his excuse when he hurts you?” Jim guesses. He strips pity or anger from his voice. He just wants to know what kind of lies can turn the head of a smart girl like Joyce upside down.

 

Joyce doesn’t say anything, but Jim feels as she reaches over and takes his hand wordlessly. “I was so glad to see you in the parking lot tonight,” she whispers in the faded evening darkness. Shadows flood the world around them, but Jim is close enough to Joyce that he see every damn eyelash.

 

“Why’s that?” Jim asks, fishing for...something _more_. What exactly he wants from her right now, he’s not sure. But he wants to hear her voice for as long as she’ll talk to him.

 

“You’re the kind of guy people feel safe around,” Joyce says after a moment of contemplation. “So when I saw you standing there, I thought: nothing bad can happen to me tonight. Not while Jim Hopper’s around.”

 

Jim sighs and then leans up on his elbow to hover over her. “You can’t say stuff like that.”

 

Joyce smiles and turns her head to stare up at him. “Why not? Everybody thinks it.”

 

He hears Terry’s voice in his head: _go for it, Jimmy._ He thinks about Lonnie’s grip on Joyce’s arm. But most of all, he sees Joyce beneath him and thinks, _ready or not_. “Because then I gotta kiss you.”

 

“Oh,” Joyce notes. Her chin nods up slightly.

 

“Yeah, it’s a condition,” Jim says, dipping his head an inch.

 

“Well,” Joyce says quietly. He’s so close he can feel her breath on his face. “If you gotta.”

 

Jim isn’t sure what the situation is with Joyce and Lonnie, so he goes slow, just in case she wants to change her mind. He wants to memorize this moment. He wants to remember being seventeen with Joyce Womack looking out over the city of Hawkins in corduroys and a prom dress. Jim’s kissed girls before but when Joyce clutches at the front of his button-down with both hands, Jim thinks, _that’s how it’s supposed to feel_. Kissing someone you care about is fireworks in the pit of your stomach, dizzy like you’ve held your breath for too long, heart racing like you’ve just run a marathon—but God, you’ve barely gone two inches to bridge the gap between your lips.

 

Joyce kisses him back and the world stands still. She pulls him in close and Jim thinks he could live in this moment forever. All in all, Jim Hopper was pretty sure he lived in a universe where guys like him don’t get girls like Joyce Womack. Jim finds that it’s nice to be wrong sometimes. Things fall back into motion as she makes a quiet noise, huffing out a plaintive, “ _Jim_.”

 

Her fingers reach up and tangle in his hair as she rolls on top of him. Jim’s right arm finds its way around her waist, grounding her against his stomach. The tulle in Joyce’s dress crinkles slightly under his touch. He uses his left hand to hold her cheek—gentle as he can manage. His fingers shake slightly. Jim kisses her sweetly, chastely, and then deeper. He groans quietly into Joyce’s mouth: somehow, this is better than anything he ever imagined. He supposes that’s because it’s real.

 

Strangely, his face feels wet. Jim pulls back in confusion, and when he does, he sees that Joyce’s face is streaked with tears. “Hey,” he murmurs, putting his arms around her. “Hey. Am I that bad a kisser?”

 

Joyce’s face breaks and she whimpers, “No, no. It’s not that. You’re great. _I’m_ bad.” Joyce buries her face in Jim’s neck and weeps for what feels like an eternity.

 

When she pulls back, she pulls back completely, sliding off the hood of his car and landed on the dirt of the forest around them. Joyce hugs her arms around her chest and says, quietly, “I need to go talk to Lonnie.”

 

And that’s that, until Jim pulls into the parking lot at school and Joyce whispers, “It’s probably best if we don’t tell anyone about this.”

 

Part of Jim’s heart shutters closed. “Yeah,” he says, clearing his throat. It’s the first thing he’s said in a half hour. “Sure thing.”

 

They both spy Lonnie leaning against his car with a crew of his own goons, and Jim parks a few spots over to let Joyce out.

 

“I’ll see you in class,” she whispers, looking down into her lap.

 

“See you,” Jim says roughly, leaning over and opening up her door with a push.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He asks Diane out the next day, and that’s the next fifteen years of his life.

 

 

* * *

 

 

High school sweethearts are pretty common in Hawkins, Indiana. The town is small, and unless you move away to a big city, what you got is what you got. The dating pool is limited: it’s basically the kids you’ve known since kindergarten.

 

Diane was a late bloomer. She was just a little blonde thing that grew like a beanstalk over the course of eighth grade. Jim wasn’t a real sight to look at in those days—hadn’t hit any kind of puberty yet—so when Diane walked into highschool nearly a woman, she hadn’t given Jim a second thought.

 

Then Jim hit puberty and girls started looking at him differently. Hell, he nearly got lucky with Joyce Womack. That had to mean he was turning out alright.

 

Jim thinks of Diane as settling until she kisses him for the first time, and then all he thinks about is Diane.

 

“Look at us now,” Jim smiles against Diane’s lips. She tilts her graduation cap up so Jim can kiss her again.

 

“Didn’t think we’d make it this far,” Diane grins at him.

 

“Never had a doubt about you,” Jim intones. “Me, on the other hand…”

 

Diane swats him with her rolled up diploma, a smirk on her face. “I’d drag you across the finish line, kicking and screaming. You know that.”

 

“Hey,” Jim says, batting Diane’s diploma aside and pulling her close. “Hey,” he repeats, as the cheers and laughter of their fellow classmates ring out around them. “You wanna get married?”

 

Tears well up in Diane’s eyes. She beams up at him. “You mean it, Jim?”

 

“Yeah,” Jim nods with a matching smile. “I mean it.” Strangely enough, he really does mean it. Jim loves Diane in a terrible, all-consuming kind of way. It hurts to be apart from her. Marriage seems like an obvious step. And hell—everybody else is doing it. Joyce will be Mrs. Byers within the year. Even Terry is getting hitched, for Christ’s sake.

 

“Let’s do it,” Diane nods.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Diane gets pregnant the year after they get married, and Jim thinks that they’re real lucky. A lot of people have a rough time getting started with kids, and the fact that he and Diane are cooking with fire already is nothing to sniff at.

 

“I’m thinking ten kids,” Jim teases, hand on Diane’s rotund stomach. “Twenty.”

 

“One is fine for now,” Diane laughs, ruffling Jim’s hair.

 

“For now,” Jim huffs, leaning down to kiss her.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sarah is kicking and screaming as the doctors are trying to place a second large bore IV catheter in her arm. Jim has to hold her down. Diane is crying silently in the corner of the hospital room. Eventually, Sarah tires out and sinks down against the yellowed pediatric mattress, her bald head resting back against the pillow lamely. Jim stops restraining her and starts cradling her instead. They get the IV and tape it down before hanging a few bags of God-knows-what on Sarah’s IV pole.

 

“You did good, kid,” he murmurs softly. “You did so good.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Fuck cancer. Fuck kids cancer especially.

 

“Has this stopped feeling like a nightmare for you yet?” Diane asks him on the way back to their hotel room. Sarah’s getting treated this week, and Jim needs to pick up a change of clothes before he returns to the University hospital. They spend five weeks at home, one week in Indianapolis at the university getting chemotherapy. Jim feels like a nomad on the best of days.

 

“No,” Jim says curtly. He’s not sure it ever will.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Jim is drunk for what feels like six full months after Sarah’s funeral. It’s not fair to Diane, it’s not fair to the department. It starts with the guys buying him a drink after work in sympathy, and then Jim starts packing a bottle when Powell’s driving.

 

“What?” Jim barks at him across the car. He knows that he’s a mess. What exactly is he supposed to be? He doesn’t need Powell staring at him like that.

 

“Nothing,” Powell mutters, taking a left. “It’s nothing, Hop.”

 

They’ve been called for a group of rowdy high schoolers playing hooky in the park. Powell puts a hand on Jim’s shoulder as Jim tries to get out of the car. “I got this, man.”

 

So Jim just wanders around the lakeside end of the park while Powell does some _shoo_ -ing. He sees a kid with a toy rabbit wandering around the grass on his own as a brown haired woman looks on. “Come here, Will,” a familiar voice calls. The child, a mop-haired sprite with one of his front teeth missing, hurtles toward her as she envelops him in a hug.

 

Jim’s chest hurts. He sits down in the grass.

 

“Hop?” the familiar voice asks. It’s like she’s calling for him from very far away.

 

“What’s wrong with him, Mommy?” the child asks.

 

“He’s okay, sweetie,” the familiar voice says soothingly. Jim feels someone shake him by the shoulder.

 

He looks up and Joyce is there.

 

“What are you doing here?” Jim asks in confusion.

 

“Are you okay, Hop?” Joyce asks, and her expression breaks for a moment. She purses her lips before course correcting. “Do you want to go sit on the bench?”

 

Jim thinks that Joyce must have been at the funeral, but he can’t remember much about that time in his life. He tries to remember the last conversation he had with Joyce, and he _knows_ they must have spoken at some point after high school, but his memory flickers back to the night of senior prom and the hood of his car.

 

He looks at Joyce and then to the kid, who has attached himself to Joyce’s leg. He peers out at Jim warily. “Hey, bud,” Jim waves at him. “You wanna see my badge?” The kid nods excitedly and Jim unpins the golden star from his lapel.

 

“Don’t lose that, Will,” Joyce warns. Will shakes his head back and forth, handling the golden pin with real care.

 

“He’s a good kid,” Jim tells her. He wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand and they come away wet.

 

“Maybe you should take the day, Hop,” Joyce suggests kindly.

 

“Yeah,” Jim says roughly. “Thing is, when I’m home, the only thing I see is how she’s not there. So here is better.”

 

“Here is better?” Joyce repeats. Jim nods, and he feels as Joyce sinks into the grass next to him. “Okay.”

 

Will hands Jim back his badge after ten minutes or so of playing with it. “I’m sorry about Sarah.” His _r_ ’s are still soft and the words come out agonizingly cute: _sowwy_. _Sawah_.

 

Powell finds him a half hour later. “You done skygazing?” he drawls at Jim, cocking his hips in an attempt at a casual tease that he hasn’t been able to pull off since Sarah got sick.

 

“Yeah,” Jim says, standing up. “Yeah, I’m done.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Somehow, inexplicably, time passes. Even when every minute feels like a century, time does pass. Jim and Diane try for a year or so to get pregnant again, but it’s like pulling teeth—Diane’s never in the mood and Jim’s not trying to push things. Hell, he doesn’t know if he even wants another kid anymore. Not after what happened with Sarah.

 

They should warn you before you become a parent, Jim thinks sourly. The human body isn’t built to love something that much. Not everyone’s made for it.

 

Jim doesn’t blame Diane for leaving. He really doesn’t. It takes him another full year to really pull himself together, and Diane doesn’t deserve that. She’s a good person who should have a partner who supports her.

 

“I love you, Jim, but I can’t do this anymore.” It’s a good line, for what it’s worth.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Will Byers goes missing four years later. Joyce is a wreck, and with Lonnie out of the picture, she’s alone. Sure, she’s got Jonathan, but she can’t lean on her kid like she needs to. At least when Jim was going through it with Sarah, he had Diane there.

 

So he believes her.

 

He’s not sure what to expect, walking into the morgue that night. But he believes Joyce Byers, and that’s enough to get him past the front doors.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

**hawkins, indiana — january, 1985**

 

 

“It’s a stupid game, but I promised,” Jim sighs into the phone, cigarette between his teeth so the words are mildly grunted out. Jane mouths _promise_ at him with a glint of joy in her eye. Jim inhales deeply and blows a puff of smoke at her for good measure. “So I’ll come over with the kid at three. She’s got this… wizard hat and everything.”

 

“Mage hat,” Jane corrects, gesturing to the green, pointed hat on her head. Jim narrows his eyes at her.

 

“What’s the difference?” he whispers, hand covering the phone’s mouthpiece.

 

“ _Mage hat_ ,” Jane repeats.

 

“Mage hat,” Jim acquiesces with a sigh into the phone.

 

“I don’t know if the boys really dress up for their game,” Joyce replies. Her voice sounds tinny over the phone but bright, like she’s trying to withhold laughter. “But I think they’ll be so happy to see her. Even with a mage hat.”

 

“See you then.” Jim hangs up the phone and looks down at Jane, who is juggling what looks like a binder and a bag full of the dice Hopper bought for her at the local game shop.

 

“You got a regular game going?” the shop opener had asked him, looking him up and down like he did not expect the police chief to dabble in tabletop roleplaying. The kid looked like he’s in his late teens with a smattering of acne that Hopper did not envy. “What class you play, bro?”

 

“Fighter,” Jim said, pulling the word from out of nowhere and hoping it sounds legitimate.

 

“Sick,” the clerk nodded. “Are you playing _Dragonlance?_ ” Jim has no idea what _Dragonlance_ is, and he’s not really in the mood to find out.

 

“Something cooler than that,” Jim lied, grabbing Jane’s dice and walking briskly out the door. He didn’t need questions when it came to Jane, even if it was getting safer for her now that Jim and Dr. Owens had come to a real agreement.

 

Moving the Dungeons and Dragons game from the Wheeler’s household to the Byers’ had been for Jane’s benefit: Ted and Karen were oblivious, but Jim was certain that they would notice a strange little girl wandering around the house.

 

“I was there before,” Jane pointed out. “Didn’t see me.”

 

Jim raised an eyebrow. “You know what they call that, kid?” Jane shook her head. “Luck. No, you play at the Will’s or you don’t play at all.” It hadn’t taken much convincing. Once Mike had gotten word of the sheriff’s ultimatum, he’d made it work with the group. Jim sees how that little squirt looks at Jane and he doesn’t love it, but the time of hiding her away in the woods is over.

 

It’s called compromise. He’s working on it.

 

The drive to Joyce’s place is easy, rote. Jim has done it over a hundred times, which isn’t exactly a good portent. When the chief of police visits you a lot, bad shit is going down. And there’s been a lot of bad shit at the Byers place over the past year or so. Nothing those folks deserved. Generally, Jim finds that the people really bad shit happens to—the kind of weird, horrifying shit that no one can really explain—those people rarely deserve it. The Byers didn’t deserve it.

 

Jane races out of the truck the second he parks. The kids must have been watching from the window, because Mike’s got the door open before Jim has his two feet on solid dirt. “El!” he waves at Jane. “Nice hat.”

 

“Did you bring your character sheet?” Will appears from behind Mike. It’s nice to see that he looks less gaunt than he did a few months ago. “I can show you how to calculate your ability modifiers.” Jane just hands him her binder and the kids disappear from sight, racing towards Will’s room where Jim is certain the others are waiting.

 

“Hey, Hopper.”

 

Jim looks up a little too quickly and sees the Joyce he knew in high school: the badass teen with the leather jacket and funky haircut who used to share cigarettes with him in the parking lot. It’s a strange thing, growing older with the people you knew as a kid. Jim blinks and he zeroes in on the crow’s feet at the corners of Joyce’s eyes, on the warm but simple green sweater she wears constantly. If you didn’t know her, you’d probably say she grew out of her punk phase.

 

“Joyce.” Jim is off-duty, otherwise he’d tilt his hat at her, but he does nod his head regardless. “How’re you holding up?”

 

It’s not a stupid question but it is the wrong one, as Joyce’s face fades into a quiet, sad ache. “Oh, you know. Hanging in there. It’s, uh. It’s difficult, but I have my boys.” She pauses, her expression breaking slightly. “Will and Jonathan, I mean.”

 

“And me,” Jim adds. He doesn’t really know how he means that, but he’ll let Joyce interpret how she likes.

 

Joyce smiles up at him. “Thanks, Hop. I appreciate that.” She squeezes his arm and lets him inside, locking the door behind him as he hangs up his winter coat. He nods as she leads him toward the kitchen. Jim can do friendship. Hell, he’s been friends with Joyce for nearly thirty years.

 

“You ever play this game they’re doing?” Jim asks Joyce, who is pouring him a cup of coffee. Hopper takes the mug gratefully, though his fingers want to flinch against the heat.

 

“Will tried to teach me once,” Joyce nods, taking a seat across the table from him. “It was...a lot of math. That’s never really been my strong suit.”

 

“I remember,” Jim says with a smile. “Mr. Spellman could never get you to hand in the algebra homework on time.”

 

Joyce holds her pointer finger to her lips as she shushes him. “If the boys hear about our old, delinquent behaviors they might try and emulate us.”

 

Jim rolls his eyes. “Those kids?” He pauses for a beat, and in the back of the house, someone cries out, “Natural twenty!” A collective roar of delight emerges from a cacophony of different voices, and Hopper looks back at Joyce with a dubious expression on his face. “Yeah. Real hoodlums. I think they’d rather die than disappoint that science teacher of theirs.” He leans forward and puts his palm over her tiny knuckled fist, rubbing a large thumb over the skin of her hand. Hopper hears her let out a stuttering breath. “You didn’t raise delinquents, Joyce.”

 

She is cold to the touch, so he leaves his hand on hers for a few beats longer than he normally would for some kind of solidarity pat.

 

Joyce looks down as Jim pulls his hand away. She seems strangely off as she stares into the middle distance. “I still have nightmares about that night at the lab. How—how Bob was there, and then—” Her voice breaks away and Jim purses his lips.

 

There is a Bob Newby drawing on the wall, dressed in a full cape and superhero outfit, the works. Jim knows that Will drew it—it’s too good to have been done by any of the other kids, and after spending hours staring at Will’s artwork during his investigations, he’s come to appreciate the kid’s artistic style. To be fair, both the Byers kids have an eye for art and all that fancy shit.

 

“He was a hero,” Hopper says quietly.

 

He says it because it’s true. He doesn’t hate Bob, didn’t hate him when he was still alive. Hell, they’d all be dead inside Hawkins Lab if not for the guy.

 

“He wanted to move to _Maine_ ,” Joyce finally chokes out. “If I had said yes, maybe he would still be alive.”

 

“Maine,” Hopper repeats.

 

“His parents were selling their house,” Joyce explains. She looks over at Hopper but wiping her face quickly. “I said I wasn’t sure. I should have—I should have said yes.” She sniffs loudly. “His parents are still willing to sell the place to me. Maybe I should just take the kids and go before something else terrible happens.”

 

“Joyce,” Hopper says. “Don’t do this to yourself. You can’t change what happened by agonizing over every little decision you made. Trust me, I’ve done it, and—” _What if he’d taken Sarah to the doctor sooner, what if they’d done another round of chemotherapy, what if they tried the clinical trial at Northwestern—_

 

“Hopper?” Joyce asks in a small voice.

 

Hopper has to clear his throat before he replies, “It doesn’t help.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Hopper gets Jane enrolled in the high school under the name Dr. Owens plastered on her faked birth certificate. It takes some finagling, but he’s the chief of police, after all. It doesn’t take too much prodding to get them to accept his “long lost kid.”

 

“Jane Hopper,” Jane reads when Hopper shows her the paperwork. She’s holding the birth certificate in her hands for a long time before Hopper clears his throat.

 

“It’s good?” Hopper asks.

 

Jane traces the lettering with her finger before looking up at Hopper. “It’s good.” She leans into his side and Jim hugs her briefly.

 

Other good things include not worrying about Jane escaping the cabin while he’s at work. With Jane at school and integrated into Hawkins society, Jim finds himself relieved to have one less secret to hide. Sometimes he even whistles while taking care of the town’s more mundane issues.

 

“You seem relaxed, Chief,” Powell remarks from the passenger seat of the truck with a raised eyebrow. “Things finally working out with Mrs. Byers?”

 

Hopper glares at him. “Cool it.”

 

Powell laughs. “Yeah, okay. Don’t tell me about your little rendezvous then. But we all know.”

 

“What do you mean, _we all know?_ ” Jim barks back.

 

“You know, the more you deny it the more you sound like you’re in highschool again.” Powell gives him an eyebrow waggle. “And we _all_ know you had a crush on her in high school.”

 

“Well, excuse me for not wanting to prey upon the woman whose boyfriend just got brutally murdered and has been to hell and back over the past year.” It’s the honest to God truth: Jim Hopper has no _intentions_ when it comes to Joyce Byers besides making sure her kids are safe at night and she never has to deal with the Department of fucking Energy again.

 

“Come on, Hop. You’re perfect for that kind of crazy. She needs someone to protect her. So—do some protecting.” He wiggles his eyebrows at Jim.

 

“Christ. Don’t make me shoot you, Powell.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Jane is surrounded by photographs when he gets home. Jim ought to be surprised or angry, with Jane going through his storage like she owns the place, but instead, he just sits down next to her on the floor. Jane unclenches, like she expected him to yell at her, and Jim’s heart aches.

 

“Sarah?” Jane asks quietly, showing Jim a picture. It’s a courtesy: with her powers, Jane must already know. The photo shows a young Jim, Diane, and toddler Sarah. Sarah is trying to squirm out of Jim’s arms as he tickles her. Diane is giving Jim an _oh, shucks_ look.

 

“Yeah,” Jim says, taking the photo between his fingers. He hasn’t seen a photo of Sarah in a long time. He hid most of them away beneath the floorboards. Losing her was like an open wound in Jim’s side. Reminders of her were just salt.

 

It will never be long enough that seeing her doesn’t hurt—because of course it hurts, it will always hurt—but Jim doesn’t flinch like he used to when he saw her face.

 

“You miss her?” Jane asks.

 

“Oh yeah,” Jim sighs, pulling Jane into his side and hugging her close. “Something fierce.”

 

They sit there quietly for a long moment until Jane asks, voice muffled by Jim’s chest, “Pizza tonight?”

 

“Only if you finish your homework,” Jim says with relish.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“A _day off_ ,” Jim repeats into the phone.

 

“You’ve never taken a day off in your damn life,” Flo accuses over the phone.

 

“Well, seems like I got a bunch of sick days to burn, then.” Jim goddamn well earned a day of playing hookie, what with the Demogorgon nonsense and now the newly coined Shadow Monster. There is no other sheriff in America dealing with this kind of bullshit, you mark Jim’s words.

 

“Well, Joyce Byers has already called the station twice. Do me a favor and give her a ring.” Flo sounds exasperated as usual, but it seems that she has come to accept that Jim Hopper is far from a superhero and needs some damn rest.

 

“Fine, fine.”

 

Joyce picks up on the second ring. “Hop?” She doesn’t sound scared, and Jim relaxes his jaw.

 

“Yes, it’s me. What’s going on?”

 

“Nothing bad, promise. Will wants a play-date with Jane next weekend. Apparently she’s ‘indispensable to the party dynamic’ and he need her for some super secret dungeoneering.” Jim can hear the quotes around the phrase and chuckles a little. “I know you don’t like her out and about too much, but—”

 

“Yeah, yeah. I’m sure she'll love to come along.”

 

He hears the smile in Joyce’s voice as she replies. “Will’s gonna have a field day.” She sighs, and Jim hears the clink of what must be spoon against coffee mug.

  
  
"They seem like they're gonna be great friends," Jim muses. Both kids have seen their fair share of trauma—makes sense that they'd find solace in each other's company.

 

“You know, you’re really settling back into the whole dad thing pretty easy.” The clinking stops, like Joyce has realized that she’s really stepped in it. “Hop, I didn’t mean—”

 

Jim cuts her off. She doesn’t mean any harm. “It’s okay, Joyce. I get it.”

 

“I just wanted to say that you’re doing a good job.” Jim doesn’t know if he’s ever heard her be more earnest. “It’s not an easy job. You’re doing it well.”

 

Jim nods to himself. “Don’t know if you ever stop being a dad, once you are one.” He clears his throat and the two of them settle into an easy silence. Doesn’t matter if one of them occasionally flubs a sentiment or makes a mistake. They know the truth about each other. They know the truth about this goddamn town. They either stick together or get swallowed up completely by shadow.

 

It would be easy enough to leave the conversation like that. Keep things the way they are, in their steady status quo. It would be simple to stay this way. Taking risks has hurt Jim in the past with Joyce. But maybe he’s stupid enough to try the same trick twice.

 

He takes the phone from the crook of his neck and sits down at his kitchen table, resting the mouthpiece on his forehead for a long moment.

 

No risk, no reward.

 

Leaning the mouthpiece down, he asks quietly, “Did we ever have a shot, Joyce?”

 

“What?” Her voice sounds tinny over the phone. Jim wishes he had had the guts to do this in person.

 

Jim bites his lip for a long moment before finally admitting, “We could have been good for each other.” He turns the mouthpiece of the phone away, tangling his fingers in the twisted green cord. Jim doesn’t want her to hear his voice catch in the back of his throat.

 

“Jim,” Joyce says quietly. She hasn’t called him by his first name in a long time. “We were kids.” It feels like an excuse because it is an excuse. Joyce clears her throat. “We were kids and it felt too real.”

 

There it is.

 

Jim presses the receiver against his chest before pressing his forehead against the wood-paneled wall of the cabin. When he finally brings the phone back to his ear, Joyce is still silent. “Seems like horseshit,” he finally spits back.

 

“You know what? Life is horseshit sometimes. A _lot_ of the time.” Joyce sounds angry over the line, mostly at him, but also at herself. Jim echoes that anger, feels it burrow up inside his heart. “You of all people know that, Hop.”

 

“Oh, fuck you,” Jim snaps, hanging up the phone.

 

Jim makes coffee and tries to ignore how his hands shake. He and Joyce have seen so much loss. Maybe that much grief just makes you angry. Maybe it makes the two of them too hard to love. The phone rings a few times in the background. Jim doesn’t bother to pick up. He doesn’t know how long he sits at the kitchen table, staring into the void of his mug. Long enough that the light begins to shift inside the cabin.

 

The sound of an engine growling outside shakes Jim from his reverie. Not too many folks know about this place.

 

Two knocks on the front door and Jim is flipping open the padlocks.

 

“I’m sorry,” Joyce says, the words falling out of her mouth before Jim has a chance to open the door fully. “That was shitty, just—that was _terrible_ for me to say. I couldn’t leave it like that, and you wouldn’t answer the phone.”

 

Jim lets her inside.

 

“I think I’m meaner than I used to be,” Joyce tells him, sitting on the center cushion of the couch.

 

“I know I am,” Jim muses, and his tone is soft enough that Joyce’s nervous shoulders finally sink down.

 

“I don’t want to go to Maine,” she tells him softly.

 

“Then don’t,” Jim replies simply. Joyce laughs a little.

 

“Seems easy when you put it like that,” she mutters.

 

Jim sits down next to her and the smile fades from her face entirely. Now she’s looking at him with wide, dark eyes that Jim has spent years falling for.

 

“I bet you want to be alone,” Joyce asks, a question in her voice.

 

“No.” Jim puts the cold mug down on the coffee table. “No, I’ve done too much of that.”

 

Joyce threads their hands together, grasping him tightly. “Alright,” she whispers. “I’ll stay.”

 

Jim doesn’t ask her if she means stay in Hawkins or stay in the cabin, but he’s not about to ask for clarification. He just leans back and pulls her gently into his lap. She settles over him easy, like they’ve done this a thousand times over. Jim puts a hand at the curve of her hip, rubbing his thumb over the band of her jeans.

 

Joyce takes his large face in her hands. “Okay?” she asks.

 

In response, Jim wraps his arms around her waist and reels her in close. “C’mere,” he mutters, hauling her in close. She is small but warm in his bear hug of an embrace. Joyce noses herself forward, close enough for a kiss. Her lips trail across his face, catching on the stubble. “C’mere,” he repeats, tangling his fingers in her long, dark hair.

 

Her kiss is feather-light at first, not truly cautious but _slow_. She pulls an ache from deep in his gut with the simplest of touches. Joyce sighs, and then what was soft in their kiss now becomes rougher, needier. She falls into him like she’s been drawn close by gravity itself. It’s simple mathematics. Jim is certain the boys could explain it.

 

Jim waits for the nerves of high school to plague him once more, but they never come. When Joyce wraps her legs around his waist and he carries her to his bed, the anxiety of _this is Joyce fucking Womack_ is absent. Maybe his comfort with her is a product of waiting for so long. Perhaps they’ve both been through the kind of ordeals that strip away that kind of nervous energy. Jim has other things to worry about. Being with Joyce is easy.

 

“Let me taste you,” he requests, a greedy edge to his voice. She nods and they both strip as quickly as they can muster, what with Jim’s bad back and Joyce’s endless layers.

 

They’re older now. The intervening years haven’t been particularly kind. But they’ve both experienced the brutality of life and come out alive the other side. There’s a beauty in survival.

 

Jim slides her to the edge of the bed, kneeling before the mattress like an altar. The mid-morning sun shines in through the window curtains like a yellow hazy lens over Joyce’s skin.

 

She is slick beneath his tongue. Jim takes her thighs in his large palms to hold her to his mouth, his tongue insistent despite her cries. “ _God_ , Jim,” she groans, knees falling open for improved access. “You’ve got a real skill, there.” Jim laughs into her, nosing against her folds before coming up for air. He looks to Joyce who is staring down at him with an open, wistful expression. Jim gets it. If only they had made things work sooner.

 

“Stay with me,” he begs her. It’s not a request for her to stay in his cabin, or even in Hawkins, but to stay in this moment. To let go of the past, of regret, of whatever else plagues her heart.

 

“I’m staying put,” she nods. Jim rewards her diligence with a finger, and then two. He crooks them gently and she shudders. “ _Please_.” Jim presses on until Joyce tightens around his fingers, thighs tightening around his ears as she quakes.

 

Joyce’s breathing is still sporadic when she tells him, “Get over here,” and slides back on the mattress to make room.

 

She’s still slick from her orgasm when Jim enters her. He goes slow at first, until Joyce growls, “Let’s go, Hop,” and then Jim is _gone_. His hips hammer against hers rough enough that each pulse sends a quiet _oof_ from her lips. He buries his face in the crook of her neck and finds that there is a comfort in letting go. Within the four walls of this bedroom, Jim and Joyce leave the past where it belongs: behind them.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Will, just remember: glass canon,” Dustin says warily. Will nods in understanding as Joyce and Jim look and each other in confusion. Whatever lingo the kids have going these days, it’s beyond Jim’s scope. That’s not a bad thing, necessarily.

 

“I’m going to fireball that asshole and _hide_ ,” Will announces. Dustin gives him two big thumbs up.

 

“Roll to attack,” Mike instructs. “Max, you’re on deck. Then Lucas.”

 

Jim walks over to where Joyce is watching the kids. She leans back into his chest as Will rolls a few many-sided dice.

 

“That hits,” Mike nods, and Jane gives Will a high-five.

 

“Nice!” Max grins with a fist pump. “Alright, let’s finish him off.”

 

Jim takes Joyce by the hand and the two of them sneak into the kitchen for a quiet kiss. “This feels good,” he tells her. “This whole thing. Feels right.”

 

“It does,” Joyce nods, curling against his side.

 

A cacophony of elated screams erupt from the living room. “We did it! We beat him!”

 

“Dad!” El shouts from the hall. “I killed the dragon!”

 

The room goes quiet and Joyce squeezes his hand hard. Jim walks back to the kids, who are looking amongst each other like someone’s said something taboo. A hint of confusion creeps on Jane's face, and Jim just ruffles Jane’s hair. Jane grins up at him.

 

"Nice work, kiddo," Jim smiles at her before turning to the rest of the group. "Sounds like you all are some professional monster hunters. We might need you on the Force soon enough."

 

Mike's eyes widen before muttering, "If a dragon shows up in Hawkins, I'm out."


End file.
